


Uncertainty

by CaveFelem



Category: Formula 1 RPF, Rush (2013)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Letters, M/M, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 07:49:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1974780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaveFelem/pseuds/CaveFelem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"No part of me is indifferent about you. Part of me hates you, part of me" -</p>
<p>James can't make himself write the word he is thinking of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Uncertainty

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a work of fiction and has nothing to do with any real individuals or their real thoughts or feelings. It can be read either as F1 RPF or a Rush fic.
> 
> The story was inspired by the poem "Niepewność" (Uncertainty) by Adam Mickiewicz, which you can read in English [here](http://tlumacz-literatury.pl/polishpoetryfree.pdf) if you're interested. Thanks for the idea go to Czeri, who thought the poem was practically yelling "slash fic", and who also betaed this story.

Yet another wad of stationery paper lands somewhere in the vicinity of the rubbish bin. Oscar, by now bored of this strange throwing game that always seems to end before it's even started, merely lifts his head and then goes right back to napping.

James sighs. He's really not a letter writer at the best of times: it always takes him several drafts because he pores over what he's written so many times and keeps going back to change something. After all, if he takes the trouble to put something on paper, it should be the best he can do, shouldn't it? The phone is much quicker and easier. He knows he's a good speaker when he puts his mind to it, and being able to gauge the length and depth of silences on the other end goes a long way, particularly when it's an amorous call to a member of the fairer sex. With letters, he figures, there is only that one chance of getting it right. No backpedalling, either - no "I didn't really say that, did I?" No, when one puts something on paper, it's there and that's it, like having signed a contract.

So why is he trying to write a letter now? To Niki Lauda, of all people? Niki, who is probably working through his meticulously planned training program while his brewery heiress fiancée prepares him a healthy and nutritious meal. Niki, who scoffed at him the last time they talked and called him a stupid idiot, but with a tone that lent the words so much unvoiced affection it made James's chest ache in the strangest way.

No, he's still not really sure what's driving him to do it, and that is precisely where the problem lies.

He clicks his pen and begins another draft.

"Dear Niki,"

Click. Click.

"If it is half as hot in Austria as here" -

He crosses that out immediately, already able to imagine Niki's raised eyebrows when he opens the letter and reads that James is living up to the English stereotype and blathering on about the weather.

"Funny, isn't it? You can be one annoying rat at times, but when you're not around I find that I miss talking shit with you on the paddocks."

That much can be said while staying within safe limits. It's also true: he does miss Niki. He misses Niki's expression when he tells a rude joke and Niki shakes his head, tries to look like he has no time for such frivolity, then laughs anyway. He misses the times Niki lets his hair down, his flushed face when he's had a few drinks, the rare times he giggles. (Yes, the formidable Niki "Efficiency Is My Middle Name" Lauda does indeed giggle, especially when sufficiently intoxicated. Just the thought makes James grin.)

How to continue, though? He takes a sip from the tall glass next to the stationery - the beer in it has got as warm as the air - and leans back in the chair, but neither give him any ideas. Or, well, he has ideas aplenty, but they aren't ones he could write down. Ideas like _Niki with a little frown, concentrating_ or _Niki by the hotel pool with wet hair_ or, somewhat worryingly, _I wonder if Niki thinks of me one tenth of the amount I think of him._

Oscar whines in his sleep, and his hind legs twitch restlessly. James smiles, grateful for a disruption in the thoughts that have started to wander down paths he's not sure they should go.

"Next time, I'll bet a round of drinks I will qualify better than you."

That looks good too. It looks like business as usual.

_Niki with his face all red, laughing helplessly, his silly buck teeth, his mouth -_

No. James crosses over the drinks part with a row of forceful X's.

"Damn the whole thing," he mutters, suddenly feeling less good about his writing abilities. Frustration wells up and nearly makes him slam his fist on the desk, but a glance at the sleeping dog stays his hand. Humans being angry tends to upset the poor boy; no need to alarm him.

He takes a long gulp of the beer, and then, before he can start regretting it, vents his thoughts on paper instead.

"You have me completely confused, Rat. Over the course of a single day, even a single hour, you somehow manage to make me want to both punch you and do unspeakable dirty things to you. When you're around, I tell myself I can't wait to see the last of you, and then you go away and I start thinking, 'If Niki was here...'. The rest of the drivers are simple puzzles when it comes right down to it. You're the one I can't solve. You're the one for whom I don't have just a mental file but an entire binder.

You're my toughest competition, the rival to watch out for, and at the same time also a friend, or so I would like to think. No part of me is indifferent about you. Part of me hates you, part of me" -

James can't make himself write the word he is thinking of. That word is what one uses about girls, isn't it, when one wants to settle down with them and have things like mortgages and babies. It's not a word one uses of someone who's not any of that, but is still infuriatingly, permanently on one's mind, someone whose presence in a room one never fails to notice, whose doings and thought processes matter when it comes to things like racing. Life and death. That sort of stuff.

But then that isn't really just friendship either, is it?

He is perfectly sure he doesn't think of, say, Jody the way he does of Niki. Nor any other men, for that matter. No, it's women he enjoys, the more the merrier, and he doesn't feel like stopping that any time soon.

So why, why, why do certain brown curls, clipped tones and oil-stained hands make his body ache with sheer want? Why is he physically unable to stop smiling whenever a certain Austrian walks in? Why, every time he hears there's been a shunt, is his first thought of Niki and the hope that he's alright?

"This is fucked up, Niki," he writes in large letters, "this whole thing where you make me feel this way when I can likely never do anything about it."

He puts the pen down after the last full stop, because there's another problem right there. What would he even say to Niki when he has no adequate word in his considerable vocabulary? He has one to use when proposing to a girl, forsaking all others or at least making a damn good show of trying to, and one to use when patting a buddy on the back, but none for this.

Besides, he can imagine the disgust on Niki's face all too well. He can see how Niki would pull back instinctively, like one does from an erratically behaving animal. He'd never be at ease with James again, for the fear that he does or says something uncomfortable. No more paddock visits or nights out, no more crashing at each other's places, no more Niki getting it on with James's leftover girls. At best, Niki would look at him with a sort of pity, the kind reserved for those who are incurably sick.

If there's one thing in the world he does not want, it's Niki's pity.

James scrunches the letter up in his fist and throws it into the bin in a perfect arc.

"Hello, Niki," he writes on a new sheet.

"How are you? The weather is nice here. See you around. James."


End file.
